


Cultural Exchanges

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Foundryside - Robert Jackson Bennett
Genre: F/F, Rituals, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 17:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Sancia learns some of the rituals of Foundryside, and partakes in others.





	Cultural Exchanges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosefox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/gifts).



> Dear Rosefox! I didn’t manage to develop quite that large of a tradition of rituals that a full religion demands, but I hope you enjoy the one I based on the similarities to the ways scriving works anyway <3

"Busy?" Berenice asked, awkwardly announcing her presence with a tiny wave. She leaned against the doorway, a welcome distraction from the heap of instruments Orso had found for Sancia to test and figure out.

Sancia had heard her come into the small office space—the smallest office of all the founders, hers, because it had reminded Sancia of her old room at the inn and she couldn’t resist claiming it. While she could touch things without being overwhelmed now that the scrivings in her head had been changed, sometimes the impressions lingered and overloaded her without a clear reason, and it helped to be in familiar surroundings. Now, she smiled up at Berenice, and loved that she could go near her without having to experience the world’s worst migraine. "Hey," she said, which wasn’t particularly sharp-witted, but every time Berenice was present all of her wit leaked out of her ears anyway.

"Do you want to head out and look at the parade?" Berenice asked. "I know you don’t really get anything out of it since it is more or less about the scrivings, and admittedly, there are always a lot of people, but we could head up to the Foundryside roofs and watch it pass from there."

The parade, of course. Sancia couldn’t have forgotten, with the every one of the founders full of infectious delight and excitement. She didn’t really understand the culture of it, having lived outside the compounds as she had, with only minimal contacts to the scrappers—but the city loved to celebrate its heroes, and what better day to worship them, than on the Day of the Victory of Crasedes, the celebration of the greatest working to have ever been wrought.

Foundryside Limited had provided its own automaton for the first time, and many of the scrappers had been ecstatic at their sudden involvement into one of the cities biggest cultural phenomenons.

"Of course," Sancia said, and grabbed her trusty satchel. It contained money, a couple of workings, knives, and Clef, who was still not talking, without which she wouldn’t leave the compound.

The slaves hadn’t worshipped the Elders. They had their own traditions separate from that. Sancia felt for the coin in her pocket, blank, from all the wishing she had done now that she could touch it again. She didn’t feel like doing it out in the open, yet, and even if she did: Belief had never been an open thing on the plantations. She didn’t know if she was brave enough.

Her satchel by her side, she followed Berenice out of the door. Most of the foundry had emptied, the scrappers joining the crowds at the side of the road waiting for the parade to pass by.

At the door, Berenice held out her hand—Sancia took it, feeling her own delight again, as the new scrivings in her head didn’t let anything through unless she focused. Something about the simple gesture was elating, and she was almost skipping behind Berenice, as she led them through the back alley, and up the fire-stairs to the roof.

"Isn’t this a much better place?" Berenice asked her.

From their vantage point, they could oversee not only the street and all of the many citizens lining it, but also the foundry—and the guards of the automatons, lining the streets from the air, keeping the scrivings and their automatons in constant surveillance. The parade was also the prime time for thieves to gather proprietary samples from other scriveners.

"I brought snacks, too," Berenice said, and Sancia focused back from scanning the roofs for breaks in the pattern. And yes, Berenice had been carrying her own satchel, but Sancia had assumed it was of similar purpose as her own bag. Instead, she pulled out a blanket, and then, as if her bag was bottomless, a container of cold meats and bread, a bottle of fine wine, and six of the sugared fried round dough balls being sold everywhere down on the streets during this time of season. Sancia had never had one.

"I figured we could have a proper date? And since we don’t want to brave the masses of people," Berenice told her, uncertainly. She made a sweeping gesture at the street. "—Dinner and a show. Well, lunch and a show."

Berenice was bright and brilliant. "It’s perfect," Sancia said. Instead of saying anything more sappy, or too revealing, she grabbed one of the fried balls and plopped it in her mouth. It had just that hint of powdered sugar, fluffy and delightful. In front of her, in full view of them both, an intrepid thief jumped onto the parade float of the Michiel merchants. Sancia didn’t understand much from the scriving side of it, not when she wasn’t up close and personal, but from Berenice’s face and the talent of the thief, it couldn’t be very valuable.

He didn’t manage to come close to the lexicon carried within the float, trapped by the guards in a few seconds, but Sancia could see a different thief—smaller, and less noticeable, sneaking in while the guards were still distracted. The second thief didn’t manage to sneak in either, but wasn’t discovered by the guards either.

"We should get in touch with that one," Sancia said.

"The automaton is terrible, I could do better with a half hour and a bucket full glue," Berenice scoffed. And yes, this tradition also marked the beginning of poaching season, where the compounds tried to entice each others best scriveners away from each other. As the elders had decreed, the month before the new year was used to get rid of the old, and bring in the new—and now everyone was part of the entire charade.

"I meant the thief, actually," Sancia said, and suddenly realised that she _was_ part of the compound’s poaching team. Berenice handed her a cup with wine and then casually slipped her hand in Sancia’s. There was always time to worry about the implications later.

* * *

Foundryside Limited was a very different place to the Diestro rookery as it was to Sancia’s former room above the inn. Still kind of dirty, still rough around the edges, very loud… And yet, even in its initial conception, it resembled the splendour and grandeur of the larger houses. Something great was being built.

It was perhaps the strangest place Sancia had ever been to, including the mind of an intelligent automaton, even though that was already a very strange place. Sancia hadn’t had much time for introspection, or to luxuriate in her newfound freedom, and so she couldn’t tell if her experiences were universal for all of the foundlings in her new home.

She caught herself staring at the bright walls, painted and hidden behind art and curtains. They looked nothing like the bare white walls of her former hide-out, and yet they clearly served the same purpose. Sancia, in her quieter moments, wondered if she was serving the same kind of purpose, if she was going to search for her freedom, but now from the responsibilities of being a founder and all that entailed. She didn’t mind the strange traditions and rituals, and sometimes even took on one or two of her own.

She was never going to get the handle of tea brewing to the satisfaction of people who actually liked tea, however.

"No," the scrapper who was technically subordinate to her told her, and took the pot of tea away. He cradled the pot in his hands and looked at her as if she had stolen his pet. Sancia had noticed early that many of her fellow Foundryside members were rather particular about their superstitions, and it seemed she had stumbled upon another field mine. "The tea first, then the milk."

Sancia smiled bemusedly, and then watched more and more amused as the scrapper noticed they had snapped at her like this and were now trying to find a way to apologise. "I see this is very dear to your heart," Sancia said to help him, because she could be diplomatic no matter what Orso said, who himself had a very odd grasp on the matter.

"Uhm, yes, ma’am? The tea tastes different. The temperature changes the properties, everyone knows that."

Orso banged his cup between them on the break room. "Don’t listen to the rookies, Sancia, tea is only good as a delivery agent for caffeine. More of that, pronto, or I’m going to throw you out on the street."

Sancia could see the scrapper roll his eyes so hard, they seemed to get stuck for a second.

"I’ll just stick to coffee," she said and tried to avoid all talking about tea as a meditation tool from then on.

* * *

The rubberduck leaned on the desk, in the middle of the important scriving material, and Sancia couldn’t get a handle on it. It was among the materials Orso had given her for testing, so she assumed it must be scrived; or perhaps serve some other function but for the love of freedom, she couldn’t figure it out.

All the other instruments were easy compared to the little rubberduck. Sancia wanted to throw it back at Orso, or perhaps out of the window. The thing was just inordinately frustrating. What was its original function, anyway? She couldn’t get a good read off of anything.

She turned around in her tiny office looking for something—anything!—to inspire her, and then, decided that outside help was necessary. She didn’t like to disturb the scrappers—founders, now—at work, but needs must.

Claudia didn’t look up from her workbench when Sancia approached. She did move out the small stool underneath her desk with her foot, and Sancia took the invitation as it was meant.

Claudia’s desk looked similar to Sancia’s, for all that they served different purposes. An item that Sancia had never noticed before but had so recently acquired her ire sat on top of a stack of books. It was as if the blasted rubberduck was judging her, following her around, and driving her completely bonkers.

Several minutes later, Claudia looked up.

"What’s with the scrumming rubberducks?" Sancia asked as soon as she was paying the slightest bit of attention.

Claudia burst out in raucous laughter.

Sancia grew more and more sour, when Claudia couldn’t stop the tears coming from her eyes and yet there was still no explanation forthcoming. A few of the other scrappers had looked up, and then decided they weren’t going to get in-between them, or else Sancia could have asked someone else.

“It’s not a scrived object,” Claudia managed to say. “It’s an object of worship—well, I think that’s what Orso meant. See, when a scrivener works with long involved commands. We explain the commands to the rubberduck, so we can find the faults in our own scriving—you can use a human rubberduck, but sometimes they ask stupid questions and so interrupt your train of thoughts. I guess Orso just forgot you don’t debug scrivings the way we do!"

Sancia could not see the joke in that explanation, and probably looked very intimidating, because from behind Berenice intervened and said, "The joke is funny because usually you find rubberducks in your bathtub."

At Sancia‘s face, Claudia apologised. "I’m sorry," she said. "Just—you asked as if it was some sort of strange offering, and it is only the debugging duck. You said it like it’s a strange ritual!"

Sancia couldn’t see how it wasn’t some kind of strange ritual. At least on the plantations they had known their beliefs in divine intervention (and retribution) was wishful thinking. "Isn’t it?"

Claudia blinked owlishly. "I never really thought about it that way," she admitted. "But maybe you’re right. The duck is Crasedes’ symbol, after all."

"It’s a bunch of hokey," Berenice said. "Talking about your functions to inanimate objects never works. I’m developing a new function in the lexicon—"

"No," Claudia interrupted her. "You’ll take away my rubberduck when my cold, dead fingers are clutched around it. Don’t mess with a good thing! I’ve been talking the kinks out of my scrivings since I learned how to do it from my teachers, and so did plenty of generations before me. It’s tradition but it works!"

"Just like it’s tradition to have scrappers in the Foundryside?" Berenice said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Claudia stopped short, then laughed. "Fair enough. Continue disrupting the status quo, and disrupt all of our traditions, why don’t you?" To take the sting out of her words, she slapped Berenice’s back.

Sancia watched Berenice rub her shoulder, wincing in pain. Her future was looking brighter than ever—it would hold probably a lot more idiosyncratic traditions and other rituals, and, to be honest: She was looking forward to it.


End file.
